


Reverie

by Dalzo



Category: Star Wars - All Media Types
Genre: Alternate Universe - Historical, Alternate Universe - Victorian, Composer Ben, Dom/sub Undertones, F/M, Master of the House, Possessive Ben, Romanticism, Servant Rey, Smut
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-01-01
Updated: 2019-01-07
Packaged: 2019-09-23 09:55:13
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 3,867
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17078126
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Dalzo/pseuds/Dalzo
Summary: Reverie: a state of being pleasantly lost in one's thoughts; a daydream."You—you are inspired by your students. The women, or… one in particular. That's what they say."A low hum sounded from behind her, alerting at his sudden proximity as a large hand reached past her shoulder, brushing at her jaw—long fingers pushing lightly to urge her neck to the right. With a loud exhale, she followed the motion, taking in the haze of blue; illuminated by the ever-bright moon, skimming at the lake's surface with a breathtaking shimmer. "See that? There is my inspiration."His lips were gentle at her ear in contrast to the warm hands at her shoulders, gripping tight to manoeuvre her body around swiftly, suddenly confronted with the image of herself. Flushed cheeks, hair unravelled, body shapeless and thin. "And this too." One hand drifted from her shoulder, down her arm to wrap around her own, guiding it up and across to her opposite side, tugging her back flush to his front as his head dropped to the exposed expanse of her neck. "Never listen to what they say—I'll tell you all you need to know, my sweet."With Mr. Benjamin Solo, Rey always felt stuck in a nightmare. Or maybe it was a daydream.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

  * For [ArdeaJestin](https://archiveofourown.org/users/ArdeaJestin/gifts).



She was _only_ fond of him when he played.

 

Seated outside his grand estate, fingers clenched into the muddy earth beneath her, Rey could enjoy the sounds that drifted from the far-left window; carried in the wind to kick up leaves, wisping at the loose strands of her hair; a sad, melodic tune calm over the lake that glittered under the sun.

 

With a cool breeze one her face and the wonder of nature before her, she could forget for _just_ a moment that he wasn't a horrible, rotten man of wealth—the _master_ of the house.

 

_'Are you always so dirty?'_

 

Words spoken from a downturned mouth, sneering full lips rounding out a bitter tone. A second later and he had presented his back, striding away up to the house, the crunch of boots against dirt becoming more distant with each wide step as the _Housekeeper_ called for a warm bath with haste.

 _Strange, how he had said that when she was expected to clean his home,_ Rey had thought bitterly as Maz scrubbed her skin raw. She could only blame him for it all—the splinters from scrubbing the floors, the stains to her skirts, the hard prick of a needle while mending his riding gloves.

 

But he fed her well—or _, Finn_ the cook did. And his other servants were almost like family (well, how she imagined family would be as a classless orphan). Rose, her fellow _Under Housemaid_ always quick to put a smile on her face and Poe, the _master's_ personal servant, making her giggle like mad. Even if she had nothing to do with him, he _had_ given her so much—and his _pianoforte_ was truly something else.

 

She didn't like him. And she was glad he stayed up in his study at all times, busy with composing. That way, she could forget what he was— _who he was._

A horrible, no-good, terribly-handsome recluse who had no desire to talk to _anyone_ beneath him—

 

"I see you’re proving me right, Miss Rey."

 

Her head whipped around as the branches swayed loudly in the trees—she hadn't even realised he'd stopped playing. Or how his impressive height blocked the sunlight, looking every bit of dark and imposing from her spot on the ground.

Before coming to _Alderaan_ to begin her new position, Rey had heard the rumours; deformed, ugly, _rude._ They truly did him an injustice—well, _most_ of them.

 

"Sitting in the mud won't help you get clean."

 

She watched his lips as the words left his mouth; so wide and full, seemingly so soft. His pale complexion was a stark contrast to his lengthy hair, _dark_ eyes under a pair of eyebrows that spoke a language with every move.

Rey wondered if his hair got in his eyes when he played. Did he even _open_ his eyes, or had he memorised every key? And those hands—so large with long fingers, she could only imagine what they'd look like stretched against ivory.

 

"Neither will dusting your shelves." Rey retorted, almost absently; in a trance as she studied his huge, hulking form; the scar that split his face in two, disappearing beneath his shirt— _and just how far did it go down?_ People had said his nose was missing too, but that was there; quite prominently, strong and sharp that gave him a domineering edge. Particularly when his jaw hardened, _just_ as it did right then.

 

 _How did you get that scar?_ She wanted to ask. _Did you really do it to yourself, like they say?_

 

"Perhaps I should bathe you myself. Or teach you a lesson."

 

Rey flushed a pretty shade of pink, turning to gaze into the waters; studying her flustered reflection. "That would not be proper."

 

_"Sir."_

 

"Pardon—"

 

"You're to address me as _'Sir.'_ when speaking, Miss Rey."

 

"Yes, I— _of course."_ He hummed low, instinctively perking her body up straight. _"Yes sir."_

 

"Good." Rey breathed in silently at his warm praise, skin feeling far too hot as she heard him step closer—and _closer,_ until he was standing beside her. To her astonishment, he eased down; right beside her, in the dirt, sticking out his long legs while Rey had her legs tucked up to her chest beneath her skirts. "Now, _why_ are you sitting in the dirt, Miss Rey? Does it please you to make me angry—"

 

"Must everything I do revolve around you?" She snapped back quickly, hands wrapping around her knees to clench in her dress. _"Sir."_

 

"You _are_ a part of my household staff. Most of what you do _should_ revolve around me."

 

Rey frowned, a heavy sigh pressing on her chest. "I like to take my breaks out here. With the sun and the birds; the trees and the water, it's… peaceful and blue and green." _To glimpse at a sight that seemed so rare and to listen to the sounds you create with it._ "The view is—"

 

 _"Beautiful."_ Rey looked to her right, then. Shocked to find the imploring dark eyes on her; the unreadable, near-black expression in them of infamous composer, Benjamin Solo—a name heard around the county and country alike. "But filthy." He added, a twitch to his mouth, holding her gaze before glancing to the lake.

 

"Sir, I—"

 

"You should take a blanket next time." He cut in swiftly, nodding his head curtly. "We can't have you trucking mud through the house after you've _worked_ so hard scrubbing them, can we?"

 

 _"I don't appreciate you making such comments on my_ _—_ _"_

 

"Gooday, Miss Rey." He stood to his feet without hesitation, a brush of hands on his trousers. "Don't stay out too long—the sun is particularly bright today."

 

With a gaping mouth, Rey watched him retreat back to the house; presumably to his study, to continue his endless work.

 

 _If only he'd stay at his Pianoforte,_ Rey thought glumly.

 

~ * ~

 

"I heard he did it himself—for _creative_ inspiration. The pain helps him compose. A miserable man playing miserable tunes, making us _all_ miserable."

 

Rey snickered along with the few servants seated at the table as she dipped her bread into the bowl of soup Finn had cooked up. Mr. Solo did _love_ to be alone—and scarring himself certainly kept the ladies away. Perhaps that was why he had yet to marry a woman, for all his _wealth_ could attract many.

Though, Rey did find his scar rather interesting—almost _handsome,_ in a dangerous way. She wondered if any other ladies took an interest to his wounded appearance.

_How had a man of his position not married?_

 

"No sane man would slash at his face—"

 

"Exactly." Poe interrupted swiftly. "And Mr. Solo is _no_ sane man—you'd know that if you had to dress him. Or help when he's indisposed…. The temper on him."

 

"He's a good man." Maz said firmly, scowling at Poe. "He pays you well, treats you well with a nice _bed_ to sleep in. Gratitude is _what_ you should be feeling, Mr. Dameron."

 

"You've known him since he soiled his underclothes—you can only remember a child."

 

"He _acts_ like a child." Paige nodded stiffly. "Throwing his things around at all times of the night, making a noise—not bothering to clean after himself, too—"

 

"He has servants to do his—"

 

"He doesn't _look_ like a child." Rose cut in, a wispy smile on her face and a faraway look to her eyes. "He went swimming in the lake, once—I saw him _naked_ as the day he was born, and _oh my."_

 

"Rose!" Paige snapped, outrage flaring at her nostrils. "That isn't proper."

 

"I was only looking at the view. He happened to be in the way."

 

"Come to my quarters and I'll show you what a man looks like, _Rosie."_ Poe winked at the youngest Tico sister, earning a hard smack to both his shoulders from Maz _and_ Paige, leaving Rose to silently giggle as Rey smiled at the sight before her.

She may have no liking for the master of the house but there was always the staff to keep her in good company; her family.

 

Who'd have thought she'd ever have one of those?

 

~ * ~

 

She'd been tasked with a letter; disturbing the master in the peak of his playing, a climatic rush of chords and tones meddling together across the house.

He would not be happy.

 

Still, she knocked. The playing stopped. And Rey swallowed thickly.

 

"Miss Rey."

 

"Sir," She uttered quietly. "A letter for you."

 

"It could have waited till' tea—"

 

"Maz insisted." Rey interrupted his irritation quickly, holding up the letter as his dark eyes bored into her own. "Miss Kanata." She corrected, seeing an approved nod before his gaze moved to the parchment in hand.

 

"Very well."

 

A surge of warmth flushed at her skin when he took the letter from her, fingers brushing and tingling. And from the twitch to his pretty lips, the glaze to his pretty eyes, Rey _blushed_ at the sudden thought of it being on purpose—had he meant to touch her skin?

She was silly to think so, _but of course,_ how could she not with his words at the lake?

 

And while he studied his letter, she eagerly peered around him to glimpse at the forbidden room.

One day, she'd sneak in—when he was out.

 

_"You may leave."_

 

Her back straightened at the crack of his words; the quick switch of his mood shocking her still. His face had soured upon reading the letter; an expression that quickly turned on herself.

 

"I said you may _leave."_

 

She frowned. _"Yes."_

 

She bit back, annoyed at _his_ annoyance—she was only doing her job. And if he took issue, then he's _get_ no Sir.

 

He didn't deserve it; not one bit.

 

~ * ~

 

_What was written in that letter?_

 

Another unanswered question, cycling about beneath the shaded tree, a frown replacing the usually-content expression upon her face when outside and distant from the chores she was tasked to do.

 

The melancholy playing was gone—replaced with a struggling experiment of sound, resulting in a loud smash of keys; large hands coming down on keys in a fit of rage. Once, twice, thrice before all sound would cease.

Did his hands bruise from the act of violence? Did they crack and bleed; turn blue and purple?

 

She did not like to think of his hands hurt—she _liked_ his hands most of all.

 

And like many other times, Rey would glance up to the open window—though, today it was shut. The curtains were drawn except for the slightest of gaps… for a small moment only.

Whenever she made contact with the window, the curtain would fall back into its natural state. And with it would retreat the dark gaze she'd come to know very well these past months.

 

_What was in that letter?_

 

She'd ask over and over beneath the tree, when she lay awake in bed, even as she did her daily tasks—the incessant need for an answer watching him step in a carriage, departing to an unknown location for some mysterious reason she wasn't privy to.

 

_Who had written the letter?_

_What made him leave so quickly?_

_Why had he looked back at her with soft eyes and a frown?_

 

Even the prospect of inspecting his study had worn off; the sudden cancellation of noise emptying the large house, turning it into a maze of halls and doors, seemingly dirtier than ever.

Since when had the silence become so damning? Since when did she decide to _miss_ the man she despised so violently?

 


	2. Chapter 2

"It was his old teacher; he's _disappointed_ in Mr. Solo's lack of work, of late."

 

"I heard it was his family—they called him back, his _father's_ sick."

 

"He's always hated his family? Why would he return—"

 

"For the inheritance, of course. Bad blood settles at the hint of fortune."

 

"People say it's for a woman. One he loves, if he's capable of it—"

 

_"Impossible."_

 

For the many stories that were told about her master, it was the last that stuck with her:

A woman; a girl he mentored and taught under his tutelage—she drew him away from his home, a soundless venture for all his staff who stayed back.

 

They said composing had become too difficult without her face to look upon, and so he'd hopped in his carriage without a word of where he was heading—and would undoubtedly come back with a beautiful lady on his arm.

 

She had wrote the letter. In fine handwriting too, though that was often just what Rey thought.

 

It was all she could think about under the tree, the favourite spot suddenly too lonely without the sound of his playing—no tune to transform her to another place while she sat in the wind and reflected on how she'd ended up in such a big place of fortune. So she'd taken to his study—the opportunity to see it had risen, and Rey did so in each and every break.

 

Compared to her imagination, it was bleak. And empty. A rug, a bookshelf, a pianoforte and a desk. But there was a certain quality to the emptiness of the room—as if his _playing_ could fill it all up; like the whole estate and the air in her chest. Rey found herself enamoured by it all, eyeing the parchment laid upon the desk—the dry ink of notes and lines, unreadable to her untrained, untalented eye.

 

It helped fill a hole she hadn't known to be within.

_Why do I miss you?_ She would think, glancing to the piano—picturing him there at the stool, playing a melody; composing a sonata with her on his tricky mind. _Why her?_

 

It was silly—his wealth had blinded her. But one taste of his teasing, of his dark gaze, of words that were not proper to say to _any_ woman; a little bite and she was coming for more. Just like with Finn's cooking, Rey was starved.

It made no sense—she hated him. But Rey was never one to waste food; even the dishes that didn't taste all that nice.

 

~ * ~

 

"What do you think you're doing?"

 

She could barely register the harsh cracking tone—he _was_ home. He'd found her in his study, pressing at unknown ivory keys, _but he was home._

 

"You're back—"

 

"Stop." Rey froze, desperate to glance at his face again—to see if she'd remembered it as clear as she thought. "It's forbidden to enter my study, Rey, you _know_ that—"

 

"I know Sir, I just—"

 

"Thought it'd be a good opportunity to take a peek with me gone."

 

_"No."_

 

"Put your grubby hands on my things."

 

_"No, I only wanted_ _—"_

 

"What?" He stepped closer. "What did you want Rey?"

 

She swallowed thickly. Exhaling at the sound of a boot against the hardwood floors. She closed her eyes in hesitance, squeezed shut, thinking up reactions.

 

"I wanted to feel close to you."

 

His sharp intake of breath heightened her nerves. Another step closer.

 

_"Why?"_ A growl through clenched teeth, hardening her nerves.

 

"Because of what was said, what _you_ left for—"

 

"What did they say?"

 

One more loud step had her shaking. Fists clenched by her side.

 

"You left because you couldn't… you were uninspired and left to find it; the passion to play. They said that… You— _you are_ inspired by your students. The women, or… one in particular. That's what they say—"

 

"Who? _Who_ says this?"

 

She froze; hands clenched in her bland skirts, stained of dust and ash amidst mud, stuck from his fierce inquiry and the shaky quality to his smooth tone. The creaking floorboards, the weight to his steps combined with the heavy heel to his boots—hinting at his slow approach, each step increasing an indescribable feeling flaring at her breast; playing to the rhythm of her pounding heart. "The people, _Sir._ The servants. They all… that's their claim."

 

A low hum sounded from behind her, alerting at his sudden proximity as a large hand reached past her shoulder, brushing at her jaw—long fingers pushing lightly to urge her neck to the right. With a loud exhale, she followed the motion, taking in the haze of blue; illuminated by the ever-bright moon, skimming at the lake's surface with a breathtaking shimmer. "See that? That is what inspires me."

 

His lips were gentle at her ear in contrast to the warm hands at her shoulders, gripping tight to manoeuvre her body around swiftly, suddenly confronted with the image of _herself_ in the mirror _._ Flushed cheeks, hair unravelled, body shapeless and thin. "And this too." One hand drifted from her shoulder, down her arm to wrap around her own, guiding it up and across to her opposite side, tugging her back flush to his front as his head dropped to the exposed expanse of her neck. "Never listen to what _they_ say—I'll tell you _all_ you need to know, _my sweet."_

 

Rey blinked at her reflection, with him by her side—taking in the picture, wondering if it was all a dream. Large hands found her hips, gripping tight. And in a flurry of motion, Rey was spun around as if weightless, his body suddenly hunched over to press his nose against her own.

Eyes searching eyes, a veiled question within.

 

They dropped down to her lips. She nodded. And then _they_ danced.

 

His lips were soft and exploring, gentle bites tugging at flesh that left her gasping—and throughout it all came a rush of sound, washing over her ears—the loud melody, _a reverie_ that felt like a distant dream, thumping in her heart.

 

~ * ~

 

It wasn't proper. How his words lead her to his bedroom, decadent with desire. All from his touch, the sound of his voice, the feel of his lips—and the bed looked so inviting.

 

Funny, how in _that_ heady moment, still she thought of questions to ask:

 

What really made him left? Were any of the rumours correct? Did he really hate his family, like they said.

 

The chance ask, however, seemed wrong. Perhaps it would anger him _or_ perhaps it was just the intense surge of lust that left her red-cheeked and wanting; a familiar wetness between her legs, the same feeling when she touched herself at night to the image of his scarred face, desperate for relief.

 

"Do you understand me now?"

 

" _Yes."_

 

"Yes?"

 

"Yes, sir."

 

His smile was sinful, spreading across his face; scrunching the scar that marres his cheek, alighting his dark eyes as one long arm wrapped around the small of her waist, pulling her close.

Bending ever-so-slightly as she rose on her toes, nose slotting in aside hers, his lips moved tenderly against her bruised mouth—a gentleness she welcomed, following his footsteps as he backed her to the mattress.

 

Lightly, he pushed her into the mattress; arms bracketing her frame, a knee pushing at skirts and settling between her legs as his mouth found her neck, her chin, her cheek.

 

To her surprise, he eased off the bed to kneel in front of it; two large hands, gripping tight into the flesh of her thighs, tugging her closer. Throwing up the skirts left her eyes shut in want, the stockings ripped from her skin with an unholy noise.

She chanced a look up, when he spread her legs; his eyes set intently on her core; the mound of dark curls, the swollen pink that begged for attention, the arousal that drenched her folds.

 

"You are… a _dream."_ He spoke softly, hands moving slowly up her thighs as his head leaned in closer. "I could not escape from you if I tried. Always in my head, _always_ playing a tune I cannot recreate."

 

His fingers brushed against the sensitive bundle of nerves. Her back arched into it, a silent moan leaving her open, wanton mouth.

 

"Now, you will _sing_ for me—help me hear what I've been missing."

 

Her drew in closer, a wet, hot swipe of his tongue up her sex earning a reaction instantly; fingers buried in the mattress as his mouth descended on her; swirling, sucking, flicking while the sharp, prominent nose pressed hard into her pubis—it was if he was inhaling her scent, her _soul_ through the act, leaving her to revel under his touch.

 

He would damn her for all and she would welcome it; as long as she could continue to help him forever. With his work, his composing, _especially_ with his desire.

 

And as he continued to ravage her in a way she'd never done even days without food, a long finger prodded at her entrance; sinking into her, crooking to hit a special spot within that left her begging for release.

 

"Please, _Sir,_ I need—"

 

"What do you need?"

 

"I need _more."_

 

He hummed into her cunt, reverberating pleasantly against her clit, bucking against his face as he added another long finger. Funny, _how_ she'd wondered about those fingers on his _pianoforte_ for months and not what unbidden joy and pleasures they could bring her instead.

 

"Look at you." He murmured as she moaned long and high into the room. "Obeying my touch; singing, just as I asked. Is this all it takes to get you to obey _, Miss Rey_."

 

A breathy gasp was all she could respond with, no doubt pleasing him to no end as the speed of his fingers increased and his wonderous mouth returned to her once more.

 

She climbed higher, then. The press of his nose, the skill to his tongue, the fingers that played her _so_ magically. It was all too much. And she shattered with the filthy words he hummed into her with a cry.

 

~ * ~

 

It was funny, all those weeks ago, how he'd commented on her appearance. Funny how he'd threatened to wash her and here he was; gentle with a cloth at her back, seated in-between his strong, naked thighs as his cleaned her thoroughly.

 

_Strip,_ he'd told her last night and she'd listened. _On your belly,_ he'd demanded and she obeyed. Rough and gentle, he'd been with her; like his very own _pianoforte,_ he'd played her expertly. And apparently, he'd care for her like one too.

 

_"Beautiful."_ He would mutter into her ear, thrusting into her—hitting something inside like no other; a feeling so indescribable, she'd wondered if he felt it too. _"My beautiful, filthy maid."_

 

She'd shattered around those two words. Cried out from the surprise of it all; the feel of it all—him thick inside her, a large hand pressing at her back with her bottom arched, the other snaked around her waist to press at her clit.

 

Now he was washing away his seed, her head to his bare firm chest. She was drowsy, drunk off his attention—had anything felt so good? To be cared for— _to be washed_ and _pleasured?_

She hummed in contentment, one last question lighting up her mind.

 

And with a strike of boldness, this time _Rey_ would ask.

 

"May I watch you play?"

 

A pause in his stroke had her shivering, the arm around her waist pulling her closer.

 

"Any time you wish, _my dear."_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you for reading. This was a challenge that I revelled in. I wish I could've made this longer and more in-depth, and when I get the time, I'll probably flesh this out more. But for now, I hope this satisfies <3


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